


Prosti Menya, Moy Drug

by demonkatgurl17



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Anatoly POV, Angst and Feels, Confusion, M/M, Possibly Requited Love, Unrequited Love, Why does this site have Anatoly's name spelled wrong in its tags?, can be read as either, character exploration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-05-01 11:05:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14519145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonkatgurl17/pseuds/demonkatgurl17
Summary: Thoughts and feels Anatoly experiences for a certain blond American [from their first meet til S6E20]





	Prosti Menya, Moy Drug

**Author's Note:**

> Drabble/plot bunny I thought of a couple months ago and I'm just now getting it out (sad that this only took me a couple weeks but my real fave pairing stories take me a month or 3 to finish >_> ). Anyway, can be read as either, if you like. Just me, playing with Anatoly's character evolution.

The blond American they throw into the cell next to his is filthy.

Not quite in the ragged, unwashed way the prisoners on the Amazo are, but enough that Anatoly can’t immediately tell how pretty he is. Not that it matters. If he is weak, he won’t last, and Anatoly will likely move higher up on the list of Ivo’s playthings.

He hopes the American isn’t weak.

 

 

 

 

 

The screams the American makes as he digs out the bullet in his gut are harsh, sounds that all of the prisoners have made doing that exact same ritual. The screams die off into pained whimpers as the man - _boy_ , really - sews his wound shut. The thought occurs to Anatoly that the sounds he is making would sound rather pleasant under different circumstances then banishes the thought.

No decent Russian would consider such a thing (never mind that Anatoly was no decent Russian in the first place).

 

 

 

 

 

The bitch is opening the cage next to his, letting out the American. He’s not surprised. Of course the Americans would flock together. What does surprise him is when the young man turns to him and promises to come back for him.

He doesn’t know what to make of it.

Hours pass into days. The American still hasn’t come back.

Anatoly makes his assumptions and waits for the inevitable.

 

 

 

 

 

Anatoly’s eye is saved from Ivo when something on the island ensnares his attention. He has never been so happy to be seen back to his cell, away from the psychotic doctor. The reason for his salvation becomes obvious when the American - Oliver - is dragged back into the cell next to his. Anatoly is impressed he’s still alive after so long without seeing him.

When the guards are gone and all any of them can do is wait, Oliver talks of people with strange names.

Slade.

Shado.

Odd names, he thinks, for people, but then Oliver seems like a strange name, too, with the awkward way it flows off his Russian-born tongue.

Ol-ee-vr

Strange. Though, with practice, he might get better at saying it.

Anatoly must still be lightheaded from nearly losing an eye. 

 

 

 

 

 

He is on the island with a small group of prisoners that managed to escape in the chaos and firefight that erupted when Oliver’s friends - the _Slade_ he talked about and, apparently, now Sara - moved to retake the boat. Now, Anatoly sits in the hulking mass that used to be a plane, listens as Sara tries to bargain with Slade for Oliver’s life, listens as the American is tortured by a man once called friend.

If Anatoly had friends, he hoped they would be nothing like Oliver’s.

None in their ragtag group are friends, just fellow survivors, ones who find it easy to drug and rig one of their own with explosives when Slade comes to trade Oliver for Heinrich. The blowing-Slade-up part doesn’t work, but the trade happens and quick to tend to Oliver’s wounds is Sara, Oliver’s new friend, who has proven to be just about as scary as Slade is.

The quality of Oliver’s friends makes Anatoly wonder faintly about what kind of person Oliver himself might be.

 

 

 

 

 

Anatoly hopes all Americans aren’t as crazy as Oliver.

It’s a suicide mission, going back aboard the Amazo, especially now that they have might have a way of getting free of the island and that cursed ship, both. But Oliver seems to need to try anyway, for Sara - his _friend_.

Stupid way to die. Senseless.

It bothers Anatoly that he cares. He finds himself moved by Oliver’s selflessness and does something he’s never done for anyone: promises him unconditional aid should they meet again. Then he says goodbye to his... _friend_. Anatoly’s heart sinks as Oliver leaves; he’s never really had a friend before.

Oliver’s hour passes. Anatoly launches the torpedo.

As he maneuvers the sub away from the sinking ship, he rasps out “prosti menya” once more before strengthening his resolve. He has honored his friend by following his wishes.

Time to go home.

 

 

 

 

 

He’s … _happy_ , he supposes, when he comes across Victor aiming a gun at Oliver’s head - not because his brother was going to kill the American, but because his friend was _alive_. Anatoly loathed the memory of his time on the Amazo and the island, but meeting Oliver had been a…not so unpleasant part.

Oliver had _survived_. Not even Anatoly would have bet money on the chances of that happening, but here Oliver was, alive and in Russia, the only other person in the world to understand the pain and horror of Anatoly’s past, the memory of which, from time to time, came back to haunt him in his nightmares. The feeling in Anatoly’s chest is strange, indescribable, like…he wasn’t so _alone_. His family, his brothers, they didn’t understand what he’d gone through, not that he’d really confided in them, but Oliver knew. He understood.

It was almost too easy, getting Oliver to agree to join the Bratva. Sure, it would help Oliver in his quest to get to Kovar.

Blows rain down on Oliver - the beginning of his trials - and Anatoly thinks that he will benefit from the arrangement as well.

 

 

 

 

 

It’s fascinating, watching Oliver progress through the trials required of him. Anatoly hadn’t known him for very long during their ordeals in the South China Sea, but at the time, Oliver had seemed to have a sort of _coltishness_ about him, despite the way he had fought and killed. Like a boy playing at being a man.

In the few years since then, Oliver has grown into his skin. He has become _lethal_ , scary in a way that vaguely reminds Anatoly of Ivo or even Slade (from the brief moment they had met on the island). He’s still pretty, yes, but in an accidental sort of way that Oliver uses like any other tool to help him get what he needs.

Anatoly is confident Oliver will be an asset to the Bratva, yes, though he wonders what sort of wolf it is that he is bringing into their fold.

 

 

 

 

 

Oliver’s official acceptance into the Bratva is celebrated in the traditional way: by going to their bar and getting _drunk_. 

It’s with reluctance that Anatoly sends Oliver over to the leggy blonde dressed in red. He _knows_ she’s part of Victor’s ambush (something he’s already taken steps to derail), yet an odd feeling rises in his chest as he walks off to find another drink and wait for Victor’s men to make a move.

Regret, tinged with something he might call jealousy, if he were sober.

He downs another drink. The burn pushes most of the odd feeling out of his chest.

 

 

 

 

 

The Pakhan sends Oliver on a mission to infiltrate and blow up Kovar’s new casino. Oliver’s bomb doesn’t go off, nor does he return. Gregor announces that the Bratva are going into business with Kovar and the Pakhan’s explanations only leave Anatoly with more questions.

Weeks pass with no sign of Oliver, though a few weeks later, there are rumors of a hooded archer running around killing small-time criminals - nothing that has interrupted Bratva business, but it’s a splash of weirdness that caught Anatoly’s attention while looking for a sign that Oliver was still alive.

Anatoly is worried. And, for the first time in years, he finds his allegiance torn.

He feels strange, scared, almost. He has rarely felt fear for anyone’s neck but his own. He’s a little angry too, as though Oliver has abandoned him - which Anatoly doubts is the case when Oliver has proven time and time again a willingness to run headlong into danger for those close to him. Which Anatoly supposed should include _him_.

He’s almost sure it does.

So he keeps questioning Gregor, pushing him.

His questions don’t come without a price. 

Gregor has him beaten so badly he ends up in a hospital. Naturally, that’s exactly when Oliver chooses to resurface, looking more or less fine while Anatoly lays black and blue in a thin hospital gown. Typical American, showing up late to a fight.

Anatoly is still happy to see the pretty American alive, even though Gregor soon does his best to kill them both.

 

 

 

 

 

Newly-elected as Pakhan, Anatoly stands in the center of his brothers with his hand sliced open.

Undermining his current power trip are threads of self-doubt. He’s never led before and is unsure whom amongst these remaining brothers he can really trust. Kovar also looms as a problem to be dealt with personally, now that Anatoly is shouldering the full responsibility of Gregor’s recently vacated position.

All of that recedes to the back of his mind as his friend solemnly approaches to swear allegiance. Oliver, the “American Puppy” that Gregor had underestimated to his downfall, and the man Anatoly calls brother, even as his heart kicks harder at the thought of him than it has for any brother.

The road ahead will be difficult, he knows, but for now, Anatoly feels like a goddamn _king_.

 

 

 

 

 

He’s worried about Oliver.

His concern had been subconscious, mostly, ever since the American first agreed to the Bratva initiation trials, but it had come to the surface of Anatoly’s thoughts before the attack on Gregor at the hockey rink, when his friend had met him wearing a strange costume with arrows and a hood. The rumors now made sense even as Anatoly’s mind crowded with questions and Oliver’s explanation for the costume only confused him more.

How could Oliver rationalize something _inside_ himself as being _separate_? It couldn’t work - it _wouldn’t_ work, not in the long run - but he refused to listen, clinging to his newfound security blanket that was allowing him to do dark, _terrible_ things, like torturing Kovar’s captured lackey. The gory mess would likely appear in Anatoly nightmares, and he thinks that is why he worries for Oliver: he could see Slade’s brutality in Oliver’s ambush at the hockey rink, glimpse Ivo’s cruelty in the torture session Oliver had unnecessarily drawn out - his friend was on the verge of becoming a monster, one to rival the monsters that yet haunted Anatoly’s dreams.

Anatoly is worried enough that he suggests Oliver leave Russia and go home. He didn’t try very _hard_ , granted, because it was _nice_ having a friend so determined to help him. That and the idea of Oliver going back to America didn’t sit well with him at all, gave him a queasy, sick feeling that he didn’t want to think about.

(Thankfully) Oliver wouldn’t listen to that suggestion either, set on taking down Kovar. Anatoly wants Kovar dead as well, only now he worries that the price for it is too high.

 

 

 

 

 

Oliver is leaving.

Of course he was, Anatoly wasn’t stupid, he had listened when Oliver explained his ‘crusade’ to right his father’s wrongs, a goal Oliver had been preparing himself to undertake, so it shouldn’t have been such a shock when Oliver tells him, the whispered words having the effect of a bomb going off in Anatoly’s head, sending shock and pain and destruction through his soul.

Oliver is leaving.

It doesn’t matter that Oliver could do just as much good here in Russia, surrounded by his brothers (and Anatoly, of course), he is still just as set on returning home as he had been on bringing down Kovar, despite Anatoly’s Robin Hood-ploy for the hospital.

It doesn’t really hit him that Oliver is leaving him - because he wasn’t just leaving Russia, he was leaving _Anatoly_ \- until they are back on the cursed island again. Just like that, it became _real_ and something twisted in his chest, hurting in a way he’d never quite experienced before and therefore was unable to name it.

His friend, _his_ _Oliver_ , was leaving and it _terrified_ Anatoly.

In the months that Oliver had been Bratva, Anatoly had come to trust him, even depend on him, and now the support Anatoly had come to cherish would no longer be there. He would be alone, left to shoulder the responsibilities of Pakhan on his own. As a captain, he’d had a glimpse of what would be expected of him. Of what would happen to him. The position had changed Gregor, not all at once, but gradually, with the silence of a shadow, insidious in its stealth and twisting grasp. Anatoly wasn’t sure he had the fortitude to resist and maintain who he was in the face of what he must do.

With the thought of _Oliver_ at his side, Anatoly had had _hope,_ knowing his trusted friend could guide him through the darkness ahead, never mind that the younger man was already cultivating a darkness all his own. He had hoped that Oliver would change his mind once Kovar was dead…that Oliver would _stay_ …

Despite Anatoly’s efforts, it had been hopeless.

It was with a heavy heart and fear twisting in his gut that Anatoly boarded the plane and left Oliver stranded on Lian Yu, hating himself for following through with this stupid plan and hating Oliver just a bit for tearing in and out of Anatoly’s life, leaving sorrow in his wake.

 

 

 

 

 

Pressure on Anatoly mounted. Bratva funds became stressed to the point where Anatoly was forced to seek out less… _respectable_ …methods of financing, methods that involved drugs and violence on a scale previously unheard of in their organization - they began to hurt more people than they protected.

It was low. Shameful, even.

It was what Anatoly had to do to keep the brotherhood from tearing him apart - and ousting him from his position.

Who was Oliver to judge? Oliver, who seemed to think himself above the Pakhan he had sworn to follow, who repaid Bratva favors with grudging reciprocation or outright disobedience. Oliver had been a trusted friend, a fellow brother, but he repeatedly chose to keep his distance, seeming to only remember his oath to Anatoly when it suited _him._

Oliver _used_ the Bratva, taking information and aid while giving less (if anything) in return.

He used _Anatoly_.                                                                                                 

The warm affection he had once felt for Oliver was mostly gone, driven away by the pain of Oliver’s betrayal. If his gut still twisted at the thought of him, it was from anger and regret. More or less.

With every offense to the Bratva, Anatoly should turn away at the very sight of his once-friend, he should exact retribution in _some_ form and yet somehow - _somehow_ \- Anatoly kept giving in to those puppy-eyes, gazing at him with such hope, _pleading_ with him... and then once again, Anatoly would open himself up to more pain and disappointment.

When Anatoly pledges loyalty to Diaz, who was a threat to Oliver’s very existence, he thinks he’s past his weakness where the blond American was concerned. What better way to cut ties with someone than to ally with their enemy? But even trussed up with chains and personally delivered to Diaz, Oliver manages to make something in his chest go soft, his gut to twist as though _he_ were the guilty one - _absurd_ , since it was _Oliver_ who had so often betrayed _Anatoly’s_ trust - and the part of him that _misses_ Oliver, that still holds a warmth and regard for him that Anatoly is afraid to name, makes him act rashly, makes him manipulate Diaz, makes him want to try to help Oliver once more and Anatoly struggles internally, trying to cling to slights both imagined and real.

Nothing can change what has happened between them. The breadth of the river separating their paths is wide and treacherous, the bridge between them badly damaged and barely stands but for the pillars of memory that won’t quite let it fall apart.

But let no one _ever_ call Anatoly a coward.

For Oliver, he would try to swim.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and criticisms welcome. Find me at collared-fantasies.tumblr.com .


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